Big Game Part 11

Margot had known the answer to the question before she had put it, but, woman-like, was none the less affronted. Accustomed to be sought after and admired by mankind in general, it was a disagreeable experience to find herself repelled by the man of all others whom she was most anxious to ingratiate. Her face stiffened, and her rounded little chin projected itself proudly, the while her companion looked on with twinkling amus.e.m.e.nt.

"That makes you feel pretty mad, don't it?" he inquired genially. "You are not accustomed to that sort of treatment. Most of 'em run the other way, don't they? I should, in their place! But you mustn't be hard on old George. When I said 'you,' I used the word as a plural, not as applying with any special significance to your charming self. It is womankind as a whole which he finds terrifying. Run a mile any day rather than meet a woman face to face! You must not imagine that there is anything unusual in his avoidance of yourself. It's always the same tale."

Margot paused a moment, to reflect dismally that in this case there was small hope for the fulfilment of her scheme, then ventured the natural feminine question--

"Has he been crossed in love?"

"Who? George?" George's brother appeared to find something mysteriously ludicrous in the suggestion, for he shook with delighted laughter. "Rather not! Never had enough to do with a woman to give himself a chance. He's an old hermit of a bachelor, Miss Vane, absorbed in his work, and becoming more of a slave to it every year of his life.

Even on a holiday he can't take it easy like other folks. He has some writing on hand just now--a paper of sorts which he has undertaken to have ready by a certain time, and it appears to his benighted intellect that a holiday is an excellent opportunity of getting it through. Mad, you see; stark, staring mad, but an excellent fellow all the same. One of the very best. I have a large experience of men, but I've never met one to compare with him for all-round goodness and simplicity of heart.

We all have our failings, and there are worse things than a little shyness and reserve. If he avoids you like the plague, try to pity him for the loss it entails upon himself, and take no offence! As I said before, it's not a personal matter. He knows that you are a stranger and a woman, but I don't suppose he has the most glimmering idea of what you are really like!"

"Oh yes, he has. I was sitting in the kitchen this morning, and he came and spoke to me under the impression that I was Elspeth! The impression lasted until he got quite near. I was wearing an ap.r.o.n, but still,--I wasn't pleased! When he saw my face instead of hers, he fled for his life. But he _did_ see it! He knows quite well what I am like."

"And in the depths of your little girl heart you think he is a strange fellow, not to want to see you again! You can't understand why he should go out of his way to be kind to Elspeth, and avoid some one infinitely more attractive. Don't be offended, but that's a wrong view to take of the case. In my brother's eyes Elspeth is more attractive than yourself, for she is poor, you see, and ugly, and leads a life of all work and no play. He might be able to do her a good turn. Besides, he has known her for several years, and has had time to become reconciled to her existence, so to speak. Custom goes a long way with shy people. George would rather beard a den of lions than face the company in the inn parlour on a wet evening, but he is a welcome guest in the kitchen, and Mrs McNab adores him to the extent of submitting to muddy boots without a murmur. He cracks jokes with her in a free-and- easy manner which strikes awe into the heart of tremblers like myself.

It's my first visit to the Nag's Head, and I'm still in the stage of abject submission. She's a wonderful woman!"

Margot smiled with returning composure. She divined her companion's desire to change the subject of conversation, and was quite willing to further his efforts. What she had already heard concerning George Elgood supplied ample food for meditation.

Viewed in dispa.s.sionate light, it was not wholly disconcerting, for if the citadel could but once be stormed, there seemed a certainty of gaining sympathy and consideration. She must be content to wait in patience, until the hermit had become reconciled to her existence; but Ron, as a fellow-man, could venture on advances on his own account.

She must talk to Ron in private, and try to instil into him some of her own energy and enterprise. He was a dear, wonderful fellow, but absolutely wanting in initiative. Poets, she supposed, were always dreamy, impracticable creatures, unfitted to attend to practical interests, and dependent upon the good offices of some adoring woman working meekly in the background.

Her eyes brightened eloquently as she watched her brother's approach along the winding path. What a handsome young figure of manhood he made in his Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, the close-fitting deerstalker cap showing the light chestnut hair, from which no barber's shears could succeed in banis.h.i.+ng the natural kink and curl. No one would suspect, to look at him, that he cherished poetical ambitions! Margot was English enough to be thankful for this fact, illogical as it may appear.

She was proud to realise that he looked a thorough sportsman, and in absolute harmony with his surroundings, and instinctively her pride and affection voiced themselves in words. The Chieftain might not be the rose, but he was at least near the rose, and it would be well to enlist his interest as well as that of his brother.

"Doesn't he look splendid?"

Mr Elgood started, and for a moment his round face expressed the blankest bewilderment, then his eyes lit upon Ron, and comprehension dawned.

"Ah, yes," he returned indifferently, "nice-looking lad! Pity he hasn't more to say for himself. What's he supposed to do? Business or profession?"

"It's not decided. He has not long come down from Cambridge. He is quiet, but he is very clever, all the same. Much cleverer than most boys of his age."

"Humph!" The Chieftain's tone was distinctly sceptical. "Yes! Good degree?"

Margot's colour heightened in embarra.s.sment.

"Nothing special. Only a pa.s.s. It isn't in _that_ way that his cleverness shows."

"Just so! Just so! I've met men like that before. Well, don't spoil him, that's all. Wors.h.i.+p him in your heart, but not to his face. Looks to me as if he needed hardening up. A bit moony and sentimental. What?

Don't mind my saying so, do you?"

"Not a bit!" returned Margot proudly; but she cared horribly, all the same, and for the moment her liking for her companion suffered a distinct eclipse. "I know him, you see, and understand him as no stranger can do. He needs appreciation, for he is too apt to lose faith in himself, and he is not sentimental at all. He has plenty of sentiment, but that's a different thing!"

"Yes--Um!" responded the Chieftain mischievously, his little eyes twinkling with amus.e.m.e.nt as they scanned the girl's flushed, injured face. "Quite so! Sorry I spoke. He is, without doubt, an unusually gifted young man." He bowed towards Margot, with an inference too transparent to be mistaken, and at which she was obliged to laugh, despite herself.

Ronald joined them at this moment, and looked from one to the other with his big, dreamy eyes. Margot was irritated to see that he looked even more absent-minded than usual, just when she was anxious that he should show to most advantage. He asked no questions in words, however, but Mr Elgood hastened to reply to the unspoken query in his eyes.

"Your sister and I have been having an argument. I don't know how it came about. Hate arguments myself, especially on a holiday. Besides, it's a waste of time. Whoever knew any one converted by an argument?

Each one goes away more satisfied than ever that he is in the right, and that his opponent is talking rubbish; present company excluded, of course. So far as I can remember, we were discussing cleverness. If you were asked for a definition of a clever man, what would you say?

How would you describe him?"

Ronald stood in the centre of the road, his hands clasped behind his back, his brows knitted in thought. Ninety-nine people out of a hundred would have answered such a question off-hand with a few light words; Ron bent the weight of his mind to it, with whole-hearted earnestness.

"Cleverness!" he repeated slowly. "It's a poor word! There's no depth in it. When a man is called clever, it means, I think, more an ability to display a superficial knowledge than any real, stored-up wisdom. It may even be a double-edged compliment!"

"Scored!" cried the Chieftain gaily, as he waved his stick in the air, and led the way forward with a jaunty tread. "Proposed, seconded, and carried that cleverness is a delusion to be sedulously avoided! Just what I always said. I've known clever people in my day--squillions of them, and, my hat! how stupid they were! That little la.s.s dabbling in the lake is wiser than the whole crowd." He pointed to a fair-haired child wading by the side of the tarn. "The spirit of childhood--that's what we want! the spirit of joy in present blessings, and untroubled trust for the future. That little la.s.s has a life of hards.h.i.+p and toil ahead--but what does she care? The sun s.h.i.+nes to-day, and the funny wee mannie fra the inn is going to gie her a bawbee for goodies. It's a bad habit which he has fallen into; a shocking bad habit, but he canna cure himself of it." He threw a penny to the smiling, expectant child, then turning sharply to the left, led the way across the low-lying ground towards the base of the nearest hill.

Margot noticed that, as he went, he turned from time to time quick, scrutinising glances at Ron's face, as though trying to satisfy a doubt, and cla.s.sify him in his own mind. Evidently the lad's serious, somewhat pedantic manner of replying had invested him with a new interest, but when he spoke again it was only in reference to the afternoon's expedition itself.

"I am not going to take you far," he announced. "I object to walking, on principle. What I maintain is, that we were never intended to walk!

If we had been, we should have had four legs, instead of two. I never walk if I can possibly induce something else to carry me. And climbing is another mistake. What is it that one admires about mountains? Their height and grandeur! Very well, then, where is the point of vantage from which to view them? The base, of course. Climb up to the top, and you lose the whole effect, to say nothing of chucking away your valuable breath. See that little path winding up the slope? That leads to the moors, and when you are once on the moors you can walk about on the level all day long, if you are so disposed, and the air goes to the head of even a lazy old fellow like myself, and makes me quite gay and frisky. You two youngsters can go on ahead and engage in light conversation, while I puff along in the rear. At my age and bulk even the most witty conversation palls when climbing a hillside. When you get to the end of the footpath sit down and wait till I arrive, and take no notice of me till I get my wind. Then we'll start fair. Off with you!"

Margot ran forward, laughing, and she and Ron were soon scrambling up the hillside, side by side.

"That's a good fellow. I like him! He will be very interesting when one gets beneath the surface," p.r.o.nounced the boy thoughtfully.

Margot nodded emphatically.

"I'm going to love him! I feel it in my bones, and he is going to love me too, but unfortunately he's the wrong man. He says that his brother hates women, and will do all he can to avoid me, so you must take things into your own hands, Ron! I can't help you, so you must help yourself.

You will have to cultivate his acquaintance, and get him to take you about, and talk to him, and try to get intimate. You will, won't you?

Promise me that you will!"

She looked with anxiety into the lad's face as she spoke, for previous experience had proved that Ron possessed the full share of those failings which are most characteristic of his temperament: a sudden cooling of interest at critical moments; a s.h.i.+rking of responsibility, an inclination to drift. It was a part of the artistic nature, which had an irritating effect on more practical mortals. Now, as she feared, he remained as placidly unmoved by the intelligence as if it had no bearing whatever on his own prospects.

"Oh, all right. I'll see! You can't rush things, if a fellow keeps out of your way. Our opening will come in time, if we leave it to chance and don't worry. I believe I am going to do really good work here, Margot! I had an idea last night, after you had gone to bed, and I was watching the stars through the pines. I won't read it to you yet, for it wants working up, but it's good--I am sure it is good! And that little stream along from the house; I found a song motif in that,--'_Clear babbling over amber bed_!' How's that for a word- picture? Shows the whole thing, doesn't it? The crystal clearness of the water; the music of its flow, the curious golden colour of the rocks. I'm always pleased when I can hit off a description in a line.

I'm glad we came, Margot! There's inspiration in this place."

But for once Margot refused to be sympathetic.

"You did not come for inspiration, you came for a definite, practical purpose; and if you write a hundred poems, it won't make up for neglecting it. Now, Ron, wake up! I shall be angry with you if you don't do all you can for yourself. Promise me that you will try!"

"All right! All right! Do let us be happy while we have the chance, Margot. We had enough worry at home, and this place is perfect. Let us be wise children, and take no thought for the morrow. What would Elgood think of you, beginning to worry about the future, the moment his back was turned? She was a pretty ill.u.s.tration, wasn't she?--that little bare-headed child. Did you notice her hair? Almost white against the russet of her skin."

Margot grunted unsympathetically. She was out of breath with scrambling up the hillside, a trifle out of temper also, and consequently not in the mood to enthuse over artistic contrasts. She did not speak again until the summit was reached, and she threw herself on the ground to rest, and wait the arrival of the Chieftain. His gasps and grunts could already be heard in the distance, for, notwithstanding his various handicaps, he was surprisingly nimble, and in a few moments a round scarlet face hove into sight, and a round grey body rolled over on the ground by her side.

"Piff! piff! whew-w! Don't look at me, please--I don't like--being stared at by ladies--when my--complexion is flushed!" he gasped brokenly, mopping his face with a large silk handkerchief. "Every time--I--come up here--I vow I'll--never come again; but when _I'm_ once up, I--never want to go down!"

He flourished his handkerchief to the left, pointing out the wide moorland, beautiful in colouring with its bright rank greens, and the bloomy purple of heather undulating gently up and down like the waves of an inland sea.

The pure rarefied air fanned the heated faces of the climbers, and with every moment seemed to instil fresh life and vigour. It was easy to believe that, once started, one would wander on and on over this wonderful moorland, feeling no fatigue, possessed with the desire to go farther and farther, to see what surprise lay beyond the next hillock.

After all, it was Mr Elgood who made the first start. One moment he lay still, puffing and blowing, bemoaning past youth, and bewailing loss of strength; the next, like an indiarubber ball, he had bounced to his feet, and was strutting forward, waving his short arms in the air, the white silk handkerchief streaming behind him like a flag.

"_Allons, mes enfants_! No lolling allowed on the moors. Keep your eye on that green peak to the right, and make for it as straight as a die.

A few hundred yards away is a cottage where, if we are very polite and ask prettily, the guid-wife will give us a cup of b.u.t.termilk, the Gaelic subst.i.tute for afternoon tea. In a certain spot, which shall be nameless, I should as soon think of drinking poison in gla.s.sfuls, but after a stretch on the moors it tastes like nectar! Take my word for it, and try!"

That was the first walk which Ron and Margot had ever taken over a Scotch moor, and to the last day of their lives they remembered it with joy. The air went to their heads so that they grew "fey," and sang, and laughed, and teased each other like a couple of merry-hearted children, while the Chieftain was the biggest child of the three.